


Beautiful Disaster

by lokilickedme



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Boners, Depression, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Fluff, Found Love, Inappropriate Erections, Lost Love, Masturbation, Melancholy, Obsession, POV Tom Hiddleston, Panty Kink, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Strangers, Sweet, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Underwear Kink, Underwear Theft, Women's Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokilickedme/pseuds/lokilickedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom becomes obsessed with a beautiful stranger after stealing her underwear from a public laundromat.  A fluffy bit of sentimental romance with a bit of dirty fantasy, told from Mr Hiddleston's point of view.  Have fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Disaster

 

 

  
I stepped through an automatic door to escape the biting icy wind that was threatening to freeze my bones and jumped around a bit to warm myself, aware that I probably looked like a total doofus but not really caring. I hadn't been prepared for winter in Tennessee. It was my first time there and nobody had told me ahead of time that it could get bloody _cold_ at night.

In hindsight I'm sure I shouldn't have gone wandering alone, but I've always enjoyed exploring cities when I'm working, seeing the sights, soaking up the local culture. So when my PA ended up needing some time to take care of personal business, I jumped at the opportunity to do a bit of roaming on foot.

It became immediately apparent that the establishment I'd wandered into was a laundromat. Washers filled the center of the large, brightly lit room, while big industrial dryers lined the walls. There was a row of hard plastic chairs along the front wall next to the doors, so I seated myself in one so as not to make the sole other occupant of the place nervous; it was, after all, late at night and I obviously had no laundry with me. I clapped my hands together to warm them and winced when the sound, much louder than I'd intended, echoed through the room and caused the woman sitting by the folding tables to look up from her book.

She was beautiful. I watched her, trying not to _look_ like I was watching her, but unwilling to pull my eyes away even when she glanced up again a few minutes later and caught me. Busted. I smiled, hoping she wouldn't think I was a creeper. She smiled back. Exquisite.

Unfortunately, that was the end of our interaction. She went about her business, putting down her book to begin transferring her clothes from washer to dryer, humming a sweet little tune quietly to herself and obviously too lost in her own thoughts to pay me any mind. She returned to reading her book while her clothes tumbled behind the big glass dryer door, and I returned to silently watching her, feeling guilty about invading her privacy with my stare.

When the buzzer sounded on her dryer load, I found myself sad in the knowledge that she would be leaving soon.

 _Go speak to her_ , I told myself. _Do it, she'll be gone in a moment and you'll never see her again_.

I don't know what I was thinking would happen, or _hoping_ would happen, but whatever it was, it didn't. I still don't know why I didn't speak to her. I'm not a shy person, in fact I'm known to be quite the opposite, really. I'm prone to approaching anyone, at any time, for any reason...but something held me back from setting foot near this girl. Something - _decent_. I suppose she seemed so nice, so sweet and unassuming, pure and lovely...I knew, behind any front of good intentions, that I wanted to sleep with her, and I suppose if I'd approached her I would have eventually gotten around to trying to seduce her. A smooth invite back to my hotel, or hell, maybe even a quickie on top of the folding table. The knowledge that _that_ was what I wanted from her is most likely what kept me from even saying hello. She just seemed too good for that.

I knew I'd be gone in a couple of days, back on a plane again, off to some remote location - hell, I couldn't even remember where I was going next, I could barely tell you where I was at the moment. One night in a hotel bed with her sounded wonderful, but the truth of it was that she would leave the following morning and I'd jet off to the next city and she would be forgotten...and I would feel bad about that. She deserved better. She deserved better than me and my transient lifestyle. She deserved better than a one night stand with a guy she'd never see again until the next time she settled into a theater seat to watch a Marvel movie.

I wondered if she'd recognized me. People usually did...apparently I don't look like anyone else and am easy to spot. But she didn't give any indication of knowing who I was, either that or she simply didn't care.

At any rate, she dumped her clothes from the dryer into a basket and moved to the folding table and started arranging her things neatly. _Yes, I am a creeper_ I thought to myself as I watched her sort her things, noticing the pretty little camisoles trimmed in lace, the white cotton nightgown with thin straps, a couple of teeshirts, a leopard spotted satin bra...so, she had a wild side, hidden skillfully under those unassuming outer layers. I caught myself wondering what the print was on the one she was wearing. My eyes shifted down from her face to her breasts as I willed myself to develop x-ray vision so I could find out. No luck - but I utilized my uncanny skill at calculating bra size in my head and estimated her to be a 34D. I knew how nicely a good D cup fit into my hands and for the love of god, the thought of it gave me an erection. Instantly uncomfortable as my jeans grew tight in front, I shifted in the hard plastic chair and was mortified when the legs scooted a few inches on the tiles, echoing the most horrific sound through the entire laundromat. I saw her shoulders shaking as she laughed. I strained to hear it - I wanted desperately to hear her voice again. But she only giggled for a moment, and it drifted past my ears so dimly I could barely catch it. What I did catch sounded sweet and happy.

And then she had stacked all her little piles of belongings back into her basket and retrieved her purse and book from the chair. She was leaving. _Last chance_ , I heard inside my head. _Now or never, idiot_.

She met eyes with me as she passed. Her lips turned up into a smile and she nodded slightly at me, a silent goodbye. Her lovely red hair blew back off her shoulders as the automatic doors swooshed open and let the wind in, and in my mind I envisioned her moving in slow motion, a romantic vision of loveliness with the smile of an angel and the body of a venus. I nodded back, a polite tip of my head, and returned her smile.

And then she was gone.

I didn't let myself turn to watch her after she'd left the building. I would never see her again; it was best to just hold onto my last view of her, smiling sweetly at me as she exited my life forever, without ever having really been in it.

 

My phone rang and I dug it out of my pocket to see Luke's text; he was on his way. I texted back the laundromat's address and let my head fall back to rest against the hard concrete wall behind my chair. I felt inexplicably sad.

_I'll be there in 10. Sit tight._

Sit tight. Yes indeed, I was sitting tight, my jeans cutting off the circulation in my junk thanks to the mystery woman's measurements. Hoping to be rid of the troublesome boner before my PA arrived, I got up and wandered around the now deserted room, opening all the lids to the washing machines, slamming the big round glass doors of the dryers, anything to latch my mind onto the mundane and off my thwarted libido. When I got to the dryer my mystery woman had used, I noticed it was still hot and opened the door to stick my head inside. In the still-radiating heat, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply; I could smell the scent of her soap and something else, fabric softener maybe. No, not fabric softener - this was a more delicate, perfumey smell. The scent of her clothes was still in the dryer.

I've never wanted to climb inside an industrial machine so badly in my life.

Yes, that was all I needed, for Luke to breeze through the doors to hustle me off to my next commitment, and find me curled up inside a dryer, no doubt sobbing over lost love. Lost _potential_ love, anyway. I noticed my subconscious replacement of the word _lust_ with _love_ and opened my eyes with the intention of slamming the dryer door on my head to knock myself out of the ridiculous funk I was falling into.

And then I saw it. A tiny bit of fabric rolled up into a ball, resting in the bottom of the dryer. I reached out and picked it up, noticing immediately that it felt silky and was still warm. My fingers shaking, I unrolled it and my heart, I swear to you, skipped a beat. Or two.

It was a tiny pair of panties.

 _Her_ panties.

As I stood staring at them in something reminiscent of awe, my first impulse was to stuff them into my pocket. My second was to raise them slowly to my face, press them to my nose, and inhale deeply, hoping to catch any lingering scent of her that there might still be on them. I went with the second.

The residual warmth from the tumble dry made it easy to catch the last of her smell on the silky fabric. It was intoxicating, a mixture of soft vanilla gardenia perfume and woman. So much for exorcising the hardon. I resigned myself to having it for the rest of the night as I sniffed deeply, over and over, filling my lungs with her.

 

When Luke arrived, I kept my back toward the door where he was leaning in to yell " _Lets go, mate!_ " and reluctantly pushed the panties into the front pocket of my jeans. Perhaps I had lost her without ever having had her, but I did have something to remember her by. It wasn't near enough, but it would have to do.

 

That night, in my hotel room, I carefully took the panties from my pocket and just held them for a while, sitting in the plush overstuffed chair, my feet up on the coffee table. I could still smell the faint scent of her perfume on them, and it went straight to my crotch as I pressed them to my nose again. I thought about her, her sweet face and enigmatic smile and her large, intelligent eyes, glancing at me from under that fringe of pretty red hair. The ache became unbearable, and as I moved from my comfy chair to the bed, I silently asked her forgiveness for what I was about to do.

And yes, I did. Not just once, but multiple times. And that was just that first night.

And yes, I felt guilty. But not so guilty that stopping was an option. She would never know, and it made me feel better, so I indulged at every opportunity. Sometimes I held them to my nose as I stroked myself, breathing in her scent, imagining the dainty scrap of crimson fabric rubbing against her sweet lady bits under her skirt or inside her jeans, soaking up her essence. Other times I pressed them to my lips and closed my eyes while I fantasized about licking her between her gorgeous legs, wondering if the little patch of hair at the junction of her thighs matched the long gingery waves that hung about her face. And then there were times when I was overtaken with such urgent need that I would press them against my erect cock while I stroked it, imagining taking her with wanton abandon while she still wore them, pushing them to one side in my haste to reach her.

I suppose you could say my life is a bit lonely sometimes.

I have access to female companionship whenever I want it, don't get me wrong. But I have no time, no room for a relationship, and I'm a relationship kinda guy. But it's not fair to a woman to love her when I'm only going to be around for short periods of time, leaving her behind or dragging her along with me to god knows where. I love women, but I respect them too much to expect one to put up with all the baggage and hardship that comes along with loving me. Therefore, if I need the sort of company that only a female can provide, I either hook up with a tried-and-true friend who likewise desires nothing more than an occasional tumble, or I find a stranger who expects nothing of me. It's not complicated, it services everyone's needs, and I get my rocks off till next time. Shallow, yes. But it's all I have time for, and no matter how noble of character I like to think I am, at this point in my life shallow suits me.

 

I carried those sweet little panties in my pocket for the next seven months. I took them with me on movie shoots, to public engagements, cocktail parties and award ceremonies. Every time I approached a microphone to make a speech, or concentrated hard to remember my lines, or sat down on an interviewer's sofa to answer questions, or smiled for photos on the red carpet, I slipped my hand into my pocket and lovingly stroked them. Fangirls and photographers made a big deal over my hands always being in my pockets, and whenever I see those photos it makes me smile, knowing I took my mystery girl with me and nobody ever knew she was there.

She is famous now, I suppose. I sneaked her into a couple of my movies, unbeknownst to anyone but myself. That scene in the elevator, when I slump to the floor and let my head drop back against the mirrored wall, my hands in my lap...I'm touching the soft little lump in my pocket, and the look you see on my face, that look of despair and loss, is _truly_ despair and loss. Despair over not having taken my one chance to meet her, and the loss of her brief presence in my life once she'd walked out the door. And then there is that other scene from another film, the one in which my character reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out what appears to be a crimson hankie. Look closely and you will see black lace trimming the edges of the deep red silk. I had folded them carefully so that what you don't see is the little pink Victoria's Secret tag tucked neatly inside.

As for the rest of my films for that year - she's there, in every single one, in my pocket...and every time you see my melancholy smile as I tuck my hand inside, you're watching me touch her.

 

When the time finally came that my longing for her had grown too deep to cope with anymore, I resolved to replace her with something bearing a pulse before I lost my mind. But my attempt was disastrous; in my desperation to feel a woman beneath me, I found myself sorely tempted to ask the girl I'd brought back to my room if she would wear the panties. I stopped myself for two simple reasons - the first being that _no one_ deserved that sort of disrespect, especially someone who was willing to share herself with me for the night. The second being that my mystery woman didn't deserve it either. My guest and I ended up drinking ourselves into oblivion from the minibar until we passed out on the sofa, Graham Norton blaring on the telly as we snored the night away.

Eventually Luke broached the subject of my quickly dissolving emotional state; being the only human being who saw me at my rawest, he had long known something was eating away at me. His simple question - _What's up, mate?_ \- came as a relief to me, for it meant I could finally tell someone about her. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the panties, letting him have a quick look at the little wad of silk before I stuffed them back into my shirt pocket, over my heart.

I suppose the look on my face as I did so told him all he needed to know. He only asked one other question: _Who?_

I let it all spill, then. How I'd gone into the laundromat to get out of the chill wind, how she'd been there washing her clothes and we'd exchanged a smile across the big room, but never spoke to one another. How I'd found the little article of clothing in the dryer after she'd left and kept it close to me all these many months. How I was dying a little bit inside every time I touched them.

He gave me a sympathetic look and clasped my shoulder with his hand. I knew he understood. I also knew this was one thing, possibly _the_ one thing, that my trusty PA couldn't fix.

Oh ye of little faith.

 

Three weeks later I received a phonecall from an unknown number. I was on set, I'm not sure where, just one of many locations we used while filming a miniseries for telly. I missed the call but stored the number as an afterthought before shoving the phone into my pocket on top of the panties. It rang again and I took it out to set it on vibrate, aware of eyes rolling at my overly loud Michael Jackson ringtone. It was the same number again. But I couldn't get away just yet to call it back, so I tucked the phone away again and forgot about it during the mad rush of filming.

Two nights later I was in my hotel room scrolling through my phone looking for a friend's contact info when I saw the stored unknown number. Curious, I called it. A sweet, girlish voice at the other end said hello; I noted immediately that it wasn't said as a question, the way most people answer the phone. It was said as a statement, as if she were greeting a lover at the airport.

I stammered, unsure of what to say. I had no idea who I'd called; what does one say in such a situation? _Hello, I think you may have misdialed me a few nights ago, I'm calling to confirm_ \- ?

After a few moments of embarrassed silence, I laughed nervously and was about to apologize and hang up when the sweet voice at the other end asked "Did you post the picture?"

I had no idea what she was talking about, but instead of saying no, I asked "What picture?"

The voice giggled, and it was an angelic sound that gave me a warm shiver. "In the laundromat. Someone posted a picture of my underwear with a phone number that said 'important, please call if these are yours'."

I nearly dropped my phone.

When my heart started beating again and my brain reengaged, the first thing I realized was that my hands were shaking and I could scarcely breathe. The next thing I realized was that _holy shit, it was her._

Luke, you devious, sneaky, _wonderful_ bastard. He'd obviously sneaked the panties out of my pocket while I slept and taken a photo, then sent it to someone in the states who could get to the laundromat and post it on the big, cluttered notice board there. He had the address; I had texted it to him that night when he came to pick me up. My heart was close to bursting when I heard the woman's voice in my ear again.

"Anyway...they're mine. Are you planning to return them, or is there a ransom involved?"

I laughed. Her voice was angelic and it made me feel at ease.

"Oh I don't know if I want to return them," I answered, suddenly feeling brave and cheeky. "But I might consider it if you would consider coming and picking them up personally."

I expected her to reject my proposition immediately, and perhaps with indignation - and rightfully so, as what woman in her right mind would accept an offer like that from a complete stranger over the phone? Especially when the conversation revolved around a pilfered pair of lacy unmentionables. But she paused for only a moment before I heard her sweet little voice asking where to find me.

She must have remembered me from that night, and assumed -rightly - that I'd been the one who took them.

My hands were shaking again as I asked politely for her name. I told her I was currently in Switzerland, and that I would arrange to have a plane ticket ready for her to be picked up at the airport on any date that she chose to depart,if she was willing. To my amazement, she agreed, and after a brief pause she told me her name was Anja.

I tried to keep the smile that split my face out of my voice as I thanked her; she didn't need to know how excited I was to finally have a name to whisper while I relieved my desire with the help of her silky underthings.

I wanted desperately to chat with her, but a quick glance at the clock told me the huge time difference between us had most likely meant my phonecall had woken her. I apologized profusely for the interruption of her sleep, but she was gracious and assured me it was alright. As we were saying our polite goodbyes, she asked my name.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry darling," I stammered, feeling ridiculous again. "I'm Tom." I paused a moment, then added, "Hiddleston."

She didn't react, not that I could perceive anyway. When she spoke again, she said in that sweet, clear, sexy little voice, "Thank you for taking care of my underwear, Tom. Hold onto them for me until I get there."

I'm sure it was my guilty conscience, but I could have sworn the slight inflection in her voice revealed a knowledge, or at least a suspicion, of what I'd been doing. But instead of sounding accusatory or unnerved, her tone seemed amused, perhaps even approving. Or maybe that was my hopeful imagination at work. I was willing to take it, whatever it was.

After we said our goodnights, I reached into my pocket. My fingertips stroked the soft silk, finding comfort in the sensation as I whispered her name. _Anja._

I hit the quickdial button on my phone and started laughing when I heard Luke's voice. "You, sir, should be on my shit list!" I growled. "But you may consider me forever in your debt, instead."

 

A week later I was in Bern Airport, anxiously awaiting the disembarking of Flight 402 from Memphis. I had declined Luke's kind offer to wait with me, so I sat alone, running over and over in my head what I wanted to say when she arrived. Would she even come? To soothe my nerves, I slipped my hand into my pocket and closed my eyes, shutting out the noisy airport sounds, willing my heart to slow down and stop threatening to send me into cardiac arrest as I rested my fingers on the now well-worn lace trim. I'd succeeded in relaxing to the point where I didn't notice someone had approached me.

The soft, sweet, angelic voice I'd heard over the phone caressed my ears and my eyes snapped open to see her, standing in front of me, one small carryon bag sitting on the floor at her feet. She smiled, and I sprang out of my seat, towering over her because I was standing a bit too close. She craned her neck to look up at me and said with an amused sparkle in her pretty green eyes,

"I think you have something that belongs to me?"

All I could think was _yes, yes I do...my heart._

 

 

 

 


End file.
